


I'm Doing The Best That I Can

by blobfish_miffy



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Blood and Injury, But kinda sad too, Caring John, Dabbing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eppy tries to handle the situation the best he can, George is hurt, Hurt/Comfort, John expresses worry and distress by yelling, Light Angst, Mal tries to support Eppy the best he can, Male Friendship, Paul patches George back up, Ringo really wants George to be safe, Short One Shot, Worry, and bleeding, he drives a car, i mean it's cute, they just love each other very much, this fic is pretty sad not gonna lie, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: George gets punched in the face by a fan by accident. Paul frets, John yells, Eppy reasons.Ringo just wants everything to be fine.Or, the beginning of the end.***Ringo-centric.
Relationships: Brian Epstein & George Harrison, Brian Epstein & John Lennon, Brian Epstein & Paul McCartney, Brian Epstein & Ringo Starr, George Harrison & John Lennon, George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, George Harrison/Paul McCartney, George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 34
Kudos: 97





	I'm Doing The Best That I Can

**Author's Note:**

> beta'ed by the best bitch, [GameDragoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GameDragoon/pseuds/GameDragoon). Read her fics! They're amazing :)
> 
> **WARNING PLEASE READ:**  
>  There is mention of blood through the entirety of this fic. Please proceed with caution or click away if that might trigger something for you.

The car felt like a coffin. 

Suffocatingly stuffy and warm, it was, as Ringo anxiously smoked his cigarette. His gaze flitted from the bright white handkerchief hanging from Paul’s nimble fingers to the pale of George’s cheeks. The lad’s hands were in front of his face, eyes staring resolutely at the floor of the vehicle and heavy eyebrows knitted together as he ignored Paul’s soft insistence to reveal the damage. 

George’d been hit. 

_A stray hand_ , or so John had snapped at Eppy’s confused frown from the seat across from him. An over excited bird had waved her arms around at the sight of them as she’d attempted to get closer, trying to push past the annoyed coppers who were supposed to shield them from injuries such as these. She’d swung her fist against Georgie’s face by accident, making him stumble and fall back against John, who’d pushed him inside the car as quick as he could afterwards. And now George wouldn’t remove his hand. 

Paul’d pulled out a clean handkerchief as soon as John’d heatedly broken the news to the everyone, shuffling forward in his seat until his knees had touched George’s and he was close enough to clean the lad’s face. Sadly, George didn’t offer him a face to be cleaned. 

“I thought you’d upped the bloody security!” John snapped, trembling hands curled into trembling fists. The more worked up he became the more red painted his cheeks, and Eppy’s cool demeanour probably wasn’t helping him regain his composure in the slightest. “You said so! You told us you’d upped the security!”

“I have,” came the calm reply. Ringo saw Eppy frown slightly, the first obvious sign of worry finally appearing on his face. “I’ve demanded for more officers to be available to guide you to safety, and apparently one girl just broke through the barricade. It can happen, John-”

_“Well, then you haven’t demanded enough!”_

“Georgie c’mon,” Paul murmured from his seat next to Eppy. His arse had basically slid off his seat and he was almost squatting now, the hand with the handkerchief on George’s knee and the other trying to pull George’s hands away from his face. George just carefully shook his head as a _no._ _“Please,_ love, let me-”

“I’m _sorry_ this happened but we can’t just-” Eppy sighed through his nose and ran a finger over his hairline, as if he didn’t want to mess up his do. “They don’t view you as _royalty,_ John, they view you as musicians and that means that you don’t get as much protection.”

“We’re national property at this point,” John countered, voice bordering on hysteric at this point. “We can’t be- this _can’t happen,_ Brian-”

“Show me,” Paul said quietly. “I’ve dealt with yer wounded arse before, haven’t I? Let me _help_ you, George-”

A drop of blood dripped down George’s chin from where he’d lifted his palms a bit to breathe. Paul produced a strangled sigh.

Ringo stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray in the door and leaned a little closer to the other boys. Paul and George simultaneously glanced at him, looking oddly alike as they always did, and Ringo caught George’s frightened gaze. He could guess George’s reasoning for not letting Paul help him: it’d probably make him feel even more like the little brother of the group, something George despised. Considering Ringo himself had always been the small, sickly one of his friend group, he could understand it to a degree, but sometimes the need to prove yourself was stronger than your rationality. That wasn’t a good thing. George needed a bit of a wake-up call, he reckoned.

“C’mon, lad,” he rumbled, taking his own handkerchief out of his pocket and staring George down, “let us help ye,”

Lo and behold, George lowered his hands.

The sight was a little gruesome to say the least. The blood had painted his lower face in crimson, still steadily trailing from his busted nose. His lip had obviously been split when it’d been caught between a fist and George’s front teeth, creating an almost perfect cut through the skin. His hands too, where absolutely _coated_ in blood; Ringo immediately grabbed George’s wrists to wipe vigorously at the lad’s palms. 

Paul busied himself with stopping the nosebleed, dabbing carefully around the bruised area and pinching George’s nose with his free hand. Whenever Ringo looked up from his task, though, it seemed that Paul kept glancing at the George’s torn bottom lip with a wrinkled nose. 

“Is it broken?” John spat, words coming out as if they were poison on his tongue. He didn’t mean it like that, Ringo knew; John just said it that way by accident, had always had difficulty calming down after getting worked up. He’d asked because he _cared._

“‘s not,” George muttered, sounding awfully congested. “Didn’t- didn’t feel anything break, didn’t hear it either.”

Eppy sighed again, rubbing at his eyes.

“D’you know if she was wearin’ a ring?” Paul had stopped dabbing at George’s nose, now carefully observing the cut. “A punch usually doesn’t cause this much-”

“Our Georgie’s got sharp teeth,” Mal murmured from behind the steering wheel, coaxing a weak chuckle out of Ringo and Paul. George just smiled slightly, before wincing. 

_“Fuck-”_

“Yes, don’t stretch it.” Eppy leaned forward now too, placing a careful hand on George’s knee. “Do you think he needs stitches, Paul?”

Paul fumbled a bit, squinting at George’s mouth. “Don’t think so,” he then murmured, “‘s not cut clean through, y’see? Just a shallow one. Jesus, that _has_ to ‘ave been a ring.” He paused. “Is it open on the inside?”

There was a shaky sigh as George rested his head back, probably feeling a bit with his tongue. “Jus’ a little,” he then mumbled. “Nothin’- nothing bad, like some skin’s gone.”

Paul nodded, swallowing. “Just a surface cut, then.”

“Might be a good idea to take a shower when we get to the hotel, son,” Ringo said quietly. He was still wiping at George’s palms, though all the blood still lingering on the skin had been dried by now. “There’s blood fuckin’ everywhere.”

George just moaned quietly in lieu of a reply. 

_“See?”_ John suddenly spoke up, voice awfully loud. He sounded like he was about to cry. “See? He’s fucking- _aren’t you supposed to prevent this?”_

It wasn’t like John to make such a show of his emotions, especially when he was as good as sober, so he’d have had to be pretty fucking high-strung to lay them out there like that. The severity of the situation suddenly dawned on Ringo, its presence being overwhelming and heavy, and nausea settled in his stomach. It could’ve been worse. Something heavier, more damaging could’ve hit George in the face, or Paul, or John, or himself. George could’ve broken something, could’ve split his lip in two completely, could’ve gotten a concussion. It could’ve been _worse,_ and that thought alone was enough for Ringo’s stomach to twist and turn with worry and dread.

He released George’s hands, immediately feeling like he was about to float away, and leaned back while he fumbled for a cigarette. It was lit within seconds, as if the smoke wouldn’t worsen the stifling atmosphere, but even the familiar rush of nicotine couldn’t calm him down. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in through his nose. 

“I can’t parade you around in glass boxes, now, can I?” Eppy answered John, in a weak attempt to improve their serious attitudes. He paused at John’s loud, annoyed scoff, sighing again. “You know I care about you four a lot-”

_“Well,_ you obviously _don’t,”_ John snapped. “You don’t, because you allow _shit_ like this to happen to us and you don’t fucking care-”

“John-”

“-We’re nothing more than bags of money to you, aren’t we?” As a very distressed John thundered on, Ringo took a deeper drag of his cigarette and reached out to put a hand on George’s thigh. The physical contact grounded him a little. Paul stubbornly kept on dabbing at George’s mouth with the blood-soaked handkerchief. “We’re just your fucking income,” John spat. “We’re your _bloody_ cows that keep on producing cash, enough for you to buy a new fucking Royce and- and fancy suits and twenty-fucking-four carat gold wristwatches and we’re _nothing_ more than that, aren’t we? We’re-”

_“I-”_

“-just _nothing_ to you but piggybanks. Are ye gonna crack us apart too? Hit us with a fucking hammer to let the money flow? Sell us to the highest bidder as soon as your life is comfortable enough? The _only_ thing you care about is the money you don’t care about m- _us_ at all, you fucking _despise_ me. We’re your _retirement plan,_ aren’t we? _“Oh no”_ ,” he mocked, “ _”Georgie almost broke his nose. I hope the money doesn’t stop.”_ You know what, Brian? _Fuck you._ Fuck you and your greed and your _contract_ and- and just-”

_“John,”_ Eppy interrupted for a third time, voice quiet but deadly venomous, _“shut up.”_

John was breathing heavily for a couple of seconds, sitting as if he was staring at Eppy with heartbreak, before he miraculously sunk back in his seat without saying another word. Though Ringo couldn’t see his face as George and Paul were obstructing his line of sight, he was certain John looked like a kicked puppy right now - that is if the sheer regret on Eppy’s face was anything to base his conclusion on. 

“Can we at least have the day off tomorrow, then?” Ringo asked calmly, stubbing out his cigarette when Mal coughed. “Just to calm down a little. Maybe let George heal a little too, or he’ll rip that cut open every time he sings.”

Eppy bit his lip, contemplating that. He was probably thinking of the disaster calling off a concert would bring, Ringo reckoned, but this wasn’t about the concert anymore. It shouldn’t be, anyway. They weren’t- they weren’t _property_ of the fans, were they?

“Alright,” he gave in. “Alright. I’ll make some calls when I’m in my hotel room. I suppose it’s better to call it the concert off now than tomorrow morning.” He paused, staring at the bloody mess that was George. “You better feign a deathly illness, or the hotel staff will get suspicious.”

“Deathly illness,” George mumbled through Paul’s frantic yet careful dabbing, “got it. Black plague sound any good?”

“Just fine,” Eppy smiled a little, and Mal let out a short laugh. “Maybe hiss at light too. They’ll think it’s vampirism.”

Ringo snorted. He was a little amused, he had to admit that, and the slight change in subject made him feel a little less queasy. Even George smiled the smallest of smiles. 

He was immediately told stop moving by Paul though, who in turn was met with a small glare. 

The silence that followed was stifling. Paul continued to dab at the dried blood with the handkerchief, turning George’s head gently from side to side to observe the damage for the umpteeth time, while George had closed his eyes to probably allow Paul’s overbearing fretting to wash over him. Ringo couldn’t see John’s feet stretched out anymore, so he assumed the lad had curled up in his seat; Eppy was still sitting prim and proper, staring blankly out of the window. The only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the noise of the traffic surrounding the car. 

Ringo just really wanted to sleep. 

“Are we almost there?” he asked after a minute or two, feeling a headache starting to press against the back of his eyes. Nobody except Mal reacted to his question, telling him that it’d take another minute but that they were nearing the hotel quickly, and the car fell back into silence. 

When they arrived at the hotel, Paul retreated from his gentle attack on George’s beat up face, bloodied handkerchief clutched tightly in his fist. George still had his eyes closed, John was staring at the floor of the car, and Ringo was nervously bouncing his leg. Yet again was the crowd quite substantial, their screaming absurdly audible even _inside_ the car. Coppers were attempting to hold the army-sized bunch of hysterical fans away from the road. They appeared to be ready to serve as their human shield, but the thought of going out there still felt absolutely _nauseating_ to Ringo. And, judging by the shaking of George’s hands, his mate felt the same.

“Okay,” Eppy said, finally speaking up. He had to raise his voice to be understandable over the noise of the crowd, and he rubbed at his eyes. “I’d like the four of you to shield George, now. George, you should hold your hands in front of your face again- I’d rather not have some tabloid starting a rumour that the four of you have had a _brawl_ after the concert. Keep your head down, walk fast, and - for the love of God - _don’t_ interact with the fans. Alright?”

Poor Eppy was met with some low mumbling.

“I said” Eppy repeated, voice a lot harsher now, _“alright?”_

“Alright Brian,” they chorused. Ringo was starting to feel like he was a whole lot younger than his actual age and that he’d gotten caught doing something naughty by his mum; that was the aura Brian could project, anyway. 

“Good lads.” Eppy smiled a little, nodding encouragingly, before inclining his head towards the door next to John. “We’ll meet you in the lobby. Good luck.”

Ringo heard John take a deep breath before he opened the door and the screaming got unbearingly loud. George placed his most bloody hand in front of his nose and mouth, shakily following John outside with Paul hot on his heels. Ringo scooted out afterwards, closing the door behind him and standing as close as possible to Paul and George. The coppers around them were swaying with effort, almost falling against them as the fans pushed and pushed, and Ringo’s heart skipped a beat in panic when he felt a pair of fingers graze the back of his head.

At last, John had managed to push through the crowd and pave the way for the rest of them, nearly running through the revolving doors of the hotel. Ringo had never been so relieved to stand in the lobby of a too-fancy hotel. 

“That was _mental,”_ he murmured, helping Paul guide George to a nearby chair. “How can they be so hysterical?”

“It’s the hype,” Paul replied, anxiously brushing his fingers over George’s temples and the visible part of his nose. His voice was shaking a little. “You okay, Haz? Are you? Not dizzy, or lightheaded? Nothing worrying? Can you still see me?”

_“sfine,”_ George mumbled, voice muffled through his hands. _“mfine.”_

John was stood next to them with his arms crossed, unnaturally still and uncharacteristically silent.

Eppy had arranged a shared suite with separate bedrooms for the four of them. He’d been arguing at the counter for about five minutes before he came out triumphant, waving the keys around with a smug smile and handing them to Ringo. An insightful move on his part: he knew them well and was right in his assumption that they’d prefer a shared suite over separate ones at that particular moment in time. Ringo and Paul had bid Eppy and Mal a good night before dragging their hurt George and their upset John to the elevator, surviving through the pressing silence as they got carried to the correct floor and making careful smalltalk as they maneuvered to their suite.

Paul unlocked the door with the key Ringo had handed him and swiftly ushered them all inside. The excited screaming was audible even on their floor, and after spotting the tightness of George’s stance Ringo made a beeline for the open windows to slam them shut. 

John took a careful seat on the nearest settee, unzipping his boots and kicking them off before shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie. Paul pushed George into the tiny kitchenette, ordering Ringo to fetch a first aid kit. He found one in the bathroom and brought it back, setting it down on the plastic counter and opening it for Paul to have easier access. George allowed Paul to clean the dried-up blood off his face with water and to disinfect the cut on his lip with rubbing alcohol, bearing the McCartney-fretting with grace.

Ringo felt a bit useless at that point, and after a couple of seconds of just standing idly he decided to find a deck of cards. Even if nobody else wanted to play, there were enough games one could do on their own, and it’d keep his hands busy and his mind blank. That’s what he felt he needed, anyway. 

He deposited himself on the carpeted floor across from John, who’d curled up in the corner of the sofa reading some type of decorative magazine. The lad didn’t look like he wanted to talk, judging by the way the magazine obstructed the entirety of his face, so Ringo focused instead on his quest of finding some playing cards. And even though the windows were closed, the screaming of the crowd below was still faintly discernible between the humming of the airconditioning and the ticking of the clock above the telly. 

By the time Ringo had finally managed to find a deck of cards - in the back left corner of the drawer of the coffee table - Paul had finished patching George up, and the two of them migrated to the sitting area armed with rum and cola’s. With the drinks distributed and the telly turned on for background noise, the two of them finally sat down. Paul relaxed visibly, tension in his shoulders disappearing as he sank into the pillows. 

George hadn’t even settled down, though, before John flung his magazine away, crawled onto his knees, and grasped George’s bruised face between his hands. 

Ringo, who’d been shaking the deck, and Paul, who’d been taking a sip of his drink, froze as John stared the youngest of their quartet down. His hands were trembling a little, mouth pulled into an upset scowl. 

“Are you alright?” John asked with a low voice, searching George’s face. His gaze seemed linger on the swollen, split lip, the crusted blood around George’s nostrils he hadn’t allowed Paul to wipe away, and the drops of red on George’s collar, before he looked straight at George again. Ringo’s heart clenched when John started to chew on his bottom lip, probably to keep his composure. “Georgie?” he asked. “Are you?”

George swallowed, raising his left to clasp John’s right, and forced a little smile. _“No,”_ he replied quietly, “Not really. But I will be, eventually.”

John exhaled through his nose, blinking rapidly, and nodded weakly. He released George’s face and leaned back, not seeming to mind that his hand was still clasped in George’s. “Okay.”

With the tension dissolved, Ringo went back to shaking the cards and Paul took a humongous sip of his drink. John shared his cigarettes, George passed his zippo; they finally started to settle into their fourth new environment of the week, trying to relax in each other’s presence and trying to ignore the elephant in the room. None of the other three said anything when George got up from his seat to raise the volume of the television.

They’d all wanted to do the same thing, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope you somewhat enjoyed! Please leave a kudos and/or a comment if you'd like to.  
> If you'd like to chat, here's my [tumblr](https://blobfishmiffy.tumblr.com/) :) I don't bite, and I'd love to talk during this quarantine!  
> xxx Miffy


End file.
